


Through Worlds

by chronicallyHaughty



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Blackwatch Tekhartha Zenyatta, F/F, M/M, One Shot Collection
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-07
Updated: 2020-02-15
Packaged: 2020-11-02 00:02:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20553329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chronicallyHaughty/pseuds/chronicallyHaughty
Summary: "It does not matter how slowly you go as long as you do not stop." — Confucius.This is a collection of odds and ends.





	1. Genyatta #1

**Author's Note:**

> I have a [writing tumblr](http://chronicallyhaughty.tumblr.com/)! Please feel free to check it out! :D

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Zenyatta says "innocent" things and genji has a medical emergency from being flustered (am I doing prompt right?)_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anon, you’re perfect. Thank you ever so much for enabling my self-indulgent love for puns and flustered Genji. Where’s your slick Playboy Moves™ _now,_ Gengu?!

“Genji,” Angela began as she entered her office, beelining for the coffee pot she kept next to her desk – not actually intended for moments like this, but with the current team roster in mind it might as well be. “Explain to me why we’re meeting in the infirmary at,” she glanced at her wristwatch, “seven-thirty in the morning.”

A choked noise could be heard from where Hanzo stood with his back to them, his shoulders shaking as he ostensibly studied the books on her shelves. Angela would never have guessed that he held such an interest in gastrointestinal pathology.

“I had a bit of an, ah, accident.” He lifted his prosthetic right hand, which sported a kitchen knife, embedded through the synthetic meat of it. Had she been more awake, perhaps her two morning cups of coffee already consumed, Angela may have addressed this with something other than,

“Genji, _ why?” _

This proved to be too much for Hanzo as he actually burst out laughing, leaning on the shelf and prompting a round of Japanese swearing and – thankfully one-armed – flailing from her patient. As the percolator sputtered to a stop, she poured herself a cup, needing the caffeine before she dealt with whatever this nonsense was.

“Put that down.” Genji put the stapler he had readied to throw at his brother back down on her desk. “Very well, sit somewhere, we might as well do this in here. How did this even happen?”

Hanzo had moved to lean against the door jamb, arms crossed as he openly smirked at his brother.

“Yes, brother, how _ did _ this happen?”

(For a second when Athena had called her to the infirmary to help the brothers with a “minor medical emergency”, she had feared she would have to mitigate some sort of fratricidal attempt again, which, really, the once was more than enough, thank you very much. But Hanzo had changed, reluctant as she had been to acknowledge it at first. The man standing in her office was clearly here out of brotherly concern, with no more harmful intent than that of an older sibling pestering a younger one.)

She grabbed her Caduceus staff from its charging dock with the hand not occupied with caffeine, feeling not unlike a modern Greek goddess holding health and vitality in both hands. Once the grumbling Genji had slumped into her office chair, petulantly rolling it around until she threw him a quelling look, she swiftly gulped down half the mug before putting it aside and instead leaned in to examine the knife. It seemed to be a clean enough stab, straight through with no catching on anything, but all the same she readied her staff before starting to carefully extricate the blade.

“Really, though. What happened?” she asked as she worked, curious. If there was one skill Genji had always been more than competent in, it was all things sharp and pointy.

Genji opened and closed his mouth several times, as though uncertain how to start.

“Well…” he finally said, drawing out the vowel reluctantly.

—————

_ One of the most wonderful bonuses of being back with Overwatch, in Genji’s opinion, are the team meals. There’s something so deeply satisfying in preparing food for friends and family, and it’s even better when they’re right there beside you. _

_ This morning Genji and the other early risers currently on base are preparing breakfast together, and it’s a jovial affair. Jesse is squeezing fresh orange juice and singing along to the latest pop song playing on the radio, and Zenyatta is laying the table while Mei is keeping an eye on the large rice cooker they have recently gotten – a much beloved addition to the kitchen, in particular when so many of the team’s East Asian members are present. Hanzo is presiding over the stove, managing several pans full of eggs, bacon, and soon, the vegetables Genji is chopping. _

_ Well, whatever bits of them he isn’t eating. He can’t help himself, he maintains when Hanzo tries to make him stop. Angela recently upgraded his taste buds, and he swears he never tasted carrots so sweet, tomatoes so juicy. He not-so-covertly sneaks another carrot chunk into his mouth, ignoring Hanzo’s protests and fending off his spatula. _

_ “My,” Zenyatta says mildly as he reaches past him to grab the decanter of orange juice. “You’re certainly eager to get your mouth full.” _

_ Genji’s hand slips. _

—————

“So, in short: he was cutting vegetables when Zenyatta made a crude joke,” Hanzo, audibly delighting in his brother’s discomfort, finished up his tale.

“Okay, you know what?!” Genji exclaimed, sounding very much like the beleaguered younger sibling he still was and trying to twist around in the chair, upsetting Angela’s hard work. He stopped moving when she hissed at him, but kept complaining over Hanzo’s laughter. “Why are you even here? I’m not _ five, _ I don’t need a chaperone to the doctor, go away! Stupid Hanzo!”

Angela finally managed to extract the blade, dropping it on an empty part of her cluttered desk. It was a bit oily, so clearly something had been cut in there, but considering Genji’s lack of pain it didn’t seem like anything so severe that they had to wait for Torbjörn to return from his mission – and if the shuriken dispensers were damaged she would have no part in repairing them, anyway.

“A crude joke made you stab a knife into your own hand? You’ve known Jesse _ how _ long?” She activated her staff and leaned it against the chair Genji was sat in to let it work as she shifted her attention back to her coffee. Blessed brew.

“I suspect it was not so much the _ what _ as it was the _ who,” _ Hanzo helpfully supplied.

“You are _ not _ helping!” Genji groaned, burying his face in his uninjured hand. Angela heaved a mighty sigh, sending a quick prayer to whoever might have been listening for some patience.

“Genji, as your doctor, I will give you this piece of professional advice.”

Angela let the pause linger, taking a slow sip of coffee, just to enjoy Genji’s face as he raised it, a spark of hope in his eyes.

“Tell Zenyatta what you’d _ really _ like to put in your mouth.”

This time the outraged Japanese expletives came from both brothers. She took another placid sip of coffee, unbothered. It really was too damn early for this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Tumblr post](https://chronicallyhaughty.tumblr.com/post/187562284729/) | [Pillowfort post](https://www.pillowfort.social/posts/828634)


	2. MekaMechanic #1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Hana buys and breaks a thing for the express purpose of having Brigitte repairing it (but she's not sure how?)_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anon, I went astray! I hope you can still enjoy this, though, and thank you so much for requesting the gals!! <3

“Lúcio!” a familiar but unexpected voice hisses up ahead. “You’re supposed to keep watch!”

Brigitte stops in her tracks, gripping the wrench in her hand hard in surprise. She had been on her way to return it to her workspace, since she had forgotten it in her overalls again, and when she had spotted the lights on in the workshop she had assumed it was her dad having gotten caught up in a project, but this… what was Hana and Lúcio doing in the _workshop?_ And at one in the morning?

“It’s one in the morning, Hana,” Lúcio whines around a yawn as Brigitte creeps up to put her back against the wall by the doorjamb. “No one’s gonna catch us doing this, and honestly? Can I be frank with you? I love you like a sister from another mister, but this? Is stupid.”

“No, it’s not! It’s worked twice!” Hana’s voice is muffled, and so Brigitte takes a risk and carefully peeks inside.

The workshop is brightly lit, with her own and her dad’s stations in a medium amount of disarray. Jamison’s area is a disaster, as usual, and Lúcio is rolling around in Jamison’s chair (newly replaced, as he keeps breaking the wheels), but Hana has set up shop at Satya’s pristine workbench. Brigitte has time to hope she puts it back into order after she’s done, before she realises what she’s looking at.

Hana is wearing dungarees, goggles, and sturdy gloves, and she’s elbow deep in mechanics of some sort of device Brigitte can’t identify in its disassembled state. As she watches, Hana makes a noise of triumph, and the device makes an awful noise of protest as something breaks inside it. Hana grins to herself, wiping her forehead and leaving a very cute streak of oil there. Lúcio clearly sees it but chooses not to comment.

“Brigitte isn’t dumb, you know. She’s gonna catch on eventually, and you’re gonna have to explain yourself.”

Hana scoffs as she… begins to _expertly_ reassemble the clearly broken device. Oh. _Oh._

Just last week Hana had asked Brigitte to fix one of the hand controllers for her Playstation X, and had sat with her for the hour it had taken, chatting about things. It had been really nice. And apparently planned out. Huh.

_“Or_ you’re gonna get her in your room and she’s gonna have questions about all the obvious mechanic tools you own.”

_“Lúcio!”_ Hana turns pink and Brigitte is utterly charmed.

“I’m just saying! This plan of yours is full of holes,” Lúcio continues. 

Hana has been breaking things for Brigitte to fix them. To spend time with her. Because Hana likes her. Like-likes her. Brigitte just barely resists the urge to hide her face in her hands. Her dad is right: she’s completely useless at this.

Lúcio gets up from where he was slumped over with a groan, stretching his back out, and Brigitte realises she’s about to get caught unless she gets a move on. She scampers off. 

The wrench can be put back tomorrow. Looks like she’s going to need it.

—————

Brigitte is in the gym the next day when Hana sets her plan in motion.

“Bree!” Brigitte stops the swinging punching bag and begins to unwrap her hands as Hana slides to a stop next to her. “Just the person I was looking for!”

In her arms is a… drone. Uh-oh. Brigitte actually isn’t familiar with how drones work. For a second her stomach drops as she realises she won’t be able to play along with Hana’s plan this time, but then she rallies. Reinhardt has always been telling her that the key to success is knowing how to adapt a plan on the fly.

“Oh, is it broken? I don’t think I know how to fix that.” Hana’s face falls comically, and Brigitte has to struggle to keep her smile contained. “But maybe we can figure it out together? Make an afternoon of it.”

Hana lights up once more, and screw being subtle, Brigitte is a loud girl by nature. She beams right back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Tumblr post](https://chronicallyhaughty.tumblr.com/post/188104457304/) | [Pillowfort post](https://www.pillowfort.social/posts/861969)


	3. Widowmaker/?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Widowmaker gets a love letter and can't figure out who it's from_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don’t know who it’s from either! (I mean, I have my preferences, but...)  
Edit: NOW WITH ART! Check out CatKIR's beautiful creation [right here](https://twitter.com/WonderCatKir/status/1310248590921445377)!

The mornings are beautiful here. The large officer’s lounge near the top of the Gibraltar base sports these panoramic windows leading out to a terrace where Amélie likes to have her breakfast. The seagulls cry overhead as they converge around a fishing boat chugging steadily out toward the open sea. Her tea is perfect when she sips it, courtesy of Satya’s kind tutoring.

The sun is warm on her skin, still tinted blue but growing pinker ever so slowly as she spends more time here. She feels content as a basking cat, and feelings are such lovely things, now that she’s adjusted to them once more.

The note she discovered hidden in her box of tea is pinned below the plate holding her croissant. It’s handwritten, which in this day and age is unusual to say the least, and that fact leaves her without much material for comparison. Besides the other ones she has found previously, that is. She takes another sip as she rereads this latest one, trying to find new angles to analyse it from.

The letters are round and low, the a’s, c’s, and d’s looking short and plump, giving the words a cheerful appearance. It is not a style of lettering she would naturally associate with a man, but making assumptions too soon could blind you to any new facts that contradict those assumptions. Amélie’s father had been a wise man.

She touches her bangs, enjoying the way the breeze plays with her recently refreshed bob but trying to keep her hair out of her eyes as she reads the… the _love note _one more time.

_It’s sweet, how the little things seem to please you so much. Like this tea, brewed to perfection – you smile like it is all you could have possibly asked of the universe. I want to be the one to put that smile on your face._

She smiles. This one is clearly written by the same hand as the others, found hidden in places like one of her ammo boxes and, once, somehow, her clean laundry. She has all of them memorised.

_You look so happy these days. I never would have thought someone else’s happiness could have such an impact on my own._

_It’s cheesy – trust me, I know – but I don’t think I knew what gracefulness was until I met you. You’ll do something as simple as walk across a room, and the way you move – with the grace of a dancer. It’s mesmerising.  
_

_You have such strength. It would have been so much easier to just curl up and die after Talon, but you withstood the treatments, what must have been such an immense tidal wave of remorse over the things you’ve done. You dove into that wave, went under, and came out on the other side to breathe once more. You inspire me to persevere.  
_

And, as lovely as that one is, her own personal favourite,

_I swear I thought my heart was about to beat right out of my chest when you tossed Reyes over your shoulder like that, without breaking a sweat. Just, WOW._

It all presents an interesting puzzle for Amélie to occupy her during this downtime, while she makes up her mind on whether or not she wants to keep fighting. It is simply a matter of process of elimination, truly. Judging by the style of the notes, both the handwriting and the contents… Amélie drinks her tea and constructs a mental list of people on the Watchpoint, then begins to check people off of it.

She interacts regularly with Angela, who Amélie doesn’t think is into women, and Hanzo, who definitely isn’t. Satya is another person she spends much time with, but not only is she currently away on a mission, Amélie _has_ seen her handwriting, and it is neat and precise. In no way would anyone ever describe it as “bubbly”.

Zenyatta seems unlikely… considering. He tolerates her, but no more. She knows he tries, but she did what she did. Rationalising against ones feelings is no small task. None of the resident omnics seem terribly likely, as a matter of fact. And Lena is too careful around her still, and incapable, Amélie privately thinks, of the subterfuge and restraint required to keep her British colloquialisms out of a letter such as this. Besides, she seems very happy with her girlfriend, as is. Understandable, Emily is lovely.

The lack of smiley faces similarly (thankfully) eliminates their resident Mech pilot, who is but a child. Amélie has seen Torbjörn’s daughter’s scrawl on various bits of paper in the workshop, and it is every bit that of an engineer. Besides, even at twenty-three, Brigitte is a bit too young for her. Zarya does not seem the type to tiptoe around things like this, neither does Fareeha, Ashe, or Lúcio.

She leans back in her chair, watching the fluffy clouds drift by as she thinks and finishes her croissant. While McCree is often found at the range while she and Hanzo shoot, Amélie’s intuition tells her that if there is interest brewing during those times, she is not the subject. The old timers are either married or as good as, so she feels fairly confident to cross all of them off of her list.

The Junkers… No.

So. She flicks crumbs away from her fingers, rereading the latest note, again. There is Genji, who, while he does flirt with her, will flirt indiscriminately with anyone when he’s in a good mood. He’s a maybe. There’s Olivia, who has been a good friend through her getting free of Talon’s influence, supportive while Amélie’s mind and heart mended. There is Baptiste, a man with an admirable conviction and an inextinguishable kindness in his heart. He, too, has been an indispensable support through her recovery. She considers them dear friends. Then there is Mei, sweet and non-judgemental, and certainly shy enough to resort to these little secret notes. They have spoken of loss, sat quiet together in the early hours of the morning on more than one occasion.

Certainly options, but nothing concrete. She thumbs over a corner of the note, unable to hold back a small smile. She feels like a young girl again, receiving a note from a secret admirer like this.

Gérard had had beautiful handwriting. Cursive and flowing, courtesy of his fine schooling. Elegant, prioritising form over function: beautiful for a letter, illegible for a grocery list. Amélie smiles at the memories, finding they no longer sting so terribly. They had been happy. He would want her happy, now.

Hanzo or Satya would certainly try to help her figure this out should she ask, but frankly, they’re both hopeless at matters of romance. She supposes she could simply ask Athena who left the note, but... her mouth curves in a smile. She is a huntress, after all. The chase is half the fun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edit: Doubling up! If you haven't, or even if you did, check out CatKIR's art [over here](https://twitter.com/WonderCatKir/status/1310248590921445377)!  
[Tumblr post](https://chronicallyhaughty.tumblr.com/post/189135454659/) | [Pillowfort post](https://www.pillowfort.social/posts/913589)


	4. Pharmercy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Pharmercy (Pharah/Mercy) fluff, please! Prompt: Angela has no filter when very tired. This proves to be an... interesting (and possibly enlightening) experience for Fareeha._

“Ach, you smell.”

Jesse mimes being shot through the heart, slumping down “dead” on top of Reinhardt seated by the kitchen island. He only laughs loud enough to rattle the windows. Fareeha readily joins in, because it’s true; Jesse does stink of sweat. She would know, they were wrestling in the downstairs gym not five minutes ago.

She’s sure she’s no fragrant flower herself, but she takes a chance and sidles up next to Angela anyway, refilling her bottle at the kitchen sink while the doctor awaits her coffee, staring the pot down like that will make it brew faster.

“Athena locked me out of my office,” she suddenly says, apropos nothing. 

“According to a protocol _you_ instated, doctor Ziegler,” Athena primly cuts in. 

“I never meant for you to enforce that protocol on me! Ah, the dangers of sentient technology, mm?” Angela teases, shooting a tired smile Fareeha’s way. The bags under her eyes are shockingly dark up close, and Fareeha can’t quite stop a wince upon seeing them.

“Perhaps it is for the greater good, Angela. I’ve heard that you should practise what you preach,” she says, concern coloring her attempt at a joke. 

“Hear, hear!” Reinhardt chimes in from where he’s clearly eavesdropping as he eats his absurd breakfast of _so much bacon_. 

“That amount of fat will be the death of you before any bullet gets the chance,” Angela mutters to herself, ignoring the admonishment as she seems to realize that she will in fact need a cup for her coffee and blearily goes to fetch one from the dishwasher. Reinhardt only chuckles good-naturedly, fending off Jesse’s attempts to steal a piece. Fareeha opens the fridge. Does she feel like making fūl today? Perhaps it would be easier to just top off her training with something light and wait for lunch. She’s startled out of her thoughts by a cool touch to her bicep. 

“Ah, oh.” Angela is staring at her hand where it still rests on Fareeha’s arm. Then she… squeezes the muscle. Has the room gone quiet, or is Fareeha’s focus so intense she can only listen for whatever Angela is going to say next? 

“Don’t, ah, don’t forget to refuel. After that workout. Hm. _Mein Gott im Himmel…” _She waves distractedly at a second cup full of coffee sitting on the counter, and shuffles towards the door. Fareeha looks at the cup, then stares after Angela. “Don’t wake me unless it’s a medical emergency Baptiste cannot fix, verstanden?” 

“Ja, get some rest, Angela,” Reinhardt says, voice carefully neutral. Fareeha’s spine straightens instinctively at the tone. Angela is gone, but Fareeha remains staring at the empty doorway. Reinhardt and Jesse are suspiciously quiet. Thirty seconds pass like this before Fareeha breaks, glancing at the kitchen’s other two occupants. She regrets it immediately.

Reinhardt and Jesse are _grinning_ at her, giving her a new, deeper understanding of the descriptor “shit-eating”. _‘Reeha-and-Angie, sittin’ in a tree-,_ Jesse starts to sing, and Fareeha lunges at him.

The coffee is very good, though.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Tumblr post](https://chronicallyhaughty.tumblr.com/post/189635268254/) | [Pillowfort post](https://www.pillowfort.social/posts/970853)


	5. Genyatta #2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _how about some blackwatch genyatta please? :D_

“I know I’ve said it before, Nine, but boy am I ever glad to have you on deck to take the heat off of me,” Commander Reyes says offhandedly while checking over the ammunition strapped to his thighs.

“Yeah, your life sure is tough, _ super soldier. _ Right, Jiǔ?” Jesse nods over at the hulking form of the omnic seated by Genji.

“I have no opinion. I was made only to serve, after all.” 

Jesse snorts, and Genji almost smirks behind his mask. Ever since his recruitment a few months ago, Jiǔ – or Nine, for people who can’t be bothered with figuring out the pronunciation – has consistently maintained that he has no opinion, despite the ever growing amount of opinions he voices.

“Then why are you so sassy, huh?” Jesse grins. “As they say, we’re all of us students in the school of life. Even omnics, I reckon.”

“Fortune cookies were an American invention,” Genji pipes up, pointedly, drawing a chuckle from doctor O’Deorain where she’s studying her tablet.

“Yeah, yeah, I can tell when I ain’t wanted,” Jesse laughs easily, not one to take offence. He waves them off and ambles up towards the front of the transport to watch the sky.

Commander Reyes shakes his head at them all and follows, away from the engines, taking out his phone and making a call. The doctor, meanwhile, puts in earbuds and watches her tablet intently. Genji feels not eyes, but optic sensors, on him. He would know, having both, himself.

“It will be several hours yet until we arrive. Perhaps you should take this moment to rest, Agent Shimada.”

“Not on a plane,” Genji says curtly. The omnic hums, refolding his arms in what Genji can only assume is a more comfortable position. Genji doesn’t really feel comfortable in any position with his mechanical limbs, so he doesn’t know how a large omnic might experience a cramped space like the seats in this small stealth craft.

Jiǔ taps the fingers on one of his hands against his thigh in a rhythm until Genji grunts in irritation.

“I apologize. The wait is getting to me.” 

“Can omnics get bored?” Genji finds himself asking. The spirits know _ he _ certainly can, and he’d rather converse with the omnic than with the doctor.

“I was not built to experience boredom,” Jiǔ says. Genji manages to wrangle his urge to snap at him down to a manageable level. Well, almost.

“You keep saying shit like that, but still call yourself _ I _ . Doesn’t that seem, what’s the word, _ contradictory _ to you?” 

Jiǔ is quiet for a beat, a long time for a brain equal to the most advanced computers any human has ever constructed.

“I had not considered that,” he finally admits.

“You know, there’s a group of omnics in Tibet who think they have souls. Uh, you? We?”

“Nepal. The Shambali, yes. I’m familiar.” Jiǔ looks over at Genji, his blank faceplate naturally betraying nothing, but his voice is curious. “You think us the same? Protheses do not an omnic make.”

“I guess. This body is not human, though,” Genji shrugs, trying not to tense up, uncomfortable under the sudden scrutiny.

“Is Chief Engineer Lindholm human?” Jiǔ tilts his head. “Is Captain Sojourn? Or, for that matter, the commander? Where should the line for true humanity be drawn?”

“Well, shit, okay,” Genji barks out a surprised laugh, briefly drawing the attention of Reyes, still on the phone. “Guess I don’t need to go all the way to the Himalayas to get some robot enlightenment.”

He’s almost in a good mood for the rest of the journey.

Of course, the universe won’t let that stand.

—————

“Leave me,” Genji says without any inflection. He’s slumped against a wall in a cold corridor, the lightbulb above flickering. There’s bodies around him, omnic and human. He won’t look at the shredded machinery that is his left leg. He won’t, he won’t.

“No,” Jiǔ answers in that calm tone of voice. Something in Genji snaps.

«You worthless piece of shit,» he yells in Japanese, fumbling for his tanto. «Fucking robot machine motherfucker, I’ll kill you! I’ll kill your whole fucking family, I’ll–!» 

Genji swings blindly, tanto scraping against carbon fiber as Jiǔ lifts him up, using his many arms to hold him still, plucking the blade from his grasp. Manhandling him like a child. He doesn’t stop struggling, or shouting. The trip back to the transport is a blur. Genji thinks he’s bleeding too, and is in some distant part of himself glad for it. That he’s not leaking oil. His breathing is speeding up, and this, too, this reminder of his last scraps of humanity comes as some sort of twisted relief.

Words are shouted around him as the grip on his body loosens minutely when he’s put down on a horizontal surface. Momentarily freed, he thrashes wildly, shuriken catching on something soft when he uses them as claws against anything that moves. Someone swears. He doesn’t care. 

He doesn’t care about any damn thing as long as he can hurt someone. The blood he spilled during the mission isn’t enough, and his blurry vision (psychosomatic, his eyes are robotic, weren’t damaged during the fight, there’s no real reason for them to blur) tinges green as his dragon’s fury bleeds into his own. His face is wet. It pisses him off even more.

His throat is sore but he’ll be damned if he stops shouting before he physically can’t anymore. He’s out for blood and death, and he’ll damn well let everyone know it. Hands, strong as steel but flesh and blood, grab him by the arms, and cuffs are fastened around his wrists. He twists in them but they refuse to yield. He kicks, the blades in his ankles swiping at anything, and a woman yelps, and there is smoke, and then those unnaturally strong hands are pushing his legs down, the blades forcefully shoved back in place and cuffs click closed around his ankles, and. And another hand cards through his hair and he thinks about his mother for the first time in, god, years.

«Should have, damn it,» he hiccups, voice hoarse, slipping back into English as all the fight in him just… evaporates, all at once. “Should have just left me there.”

He isn’t even sure himself if he means back at the compound they just raided or Hanamura.

“Alright, I hear ya, there ya go, no need to fuss…” That baritone drawl, concerned, that’s Jesse. The overly forceful sting of an IV being inserted into his left arm, that’s doctor O’Deorain, muttering darkly in Gaelic. Glaring down at him with arms crossed, one bicep bleeding freely, that’s Commander Reyes. The hand in his hair must be one of Jiǔ’s.

Suddenly ashamed of his, his _ tantrum _ (panic attack) as it will surely be noted in the mission report, Genji closes his eyes and turns his head towards the wall. He’s not sure when he started crying, but it is not about to pass anytime soon, he can tell. He cries like a broken dam, like a child.

O’Deorain does the bare minimum expected of her before stalking off, hissing at Reyes, leaving the rest of him to McCree and Jiǔ’s care. McCree must be the one who removes his leg, because the hand in Genji’s hair doesn’t let up.

«Your fury is justified,» Jiǔ whispers in Japanese. Genji doesn’t answer, doesn’t see McCree’s glance, brows furrowed in open concern. Despite himself, Genji feels the noise of the aircraft grow distant as he passes out, exhausted.

—————

He wakes back up when the transport hits a spot of turbulence. He’s not sure how long he was out and his throat protests when he as much as considers asking Jiǔ. Jiǔ, who is still standing by his cot, stroking his hair. Tireless. He thought he was out of tears, but he finds that he has to swallow down a lump in his throat and fight back a few more.

“–all I’m saying is being in Blackwatch isn’t doing his head any good. I know Angie suggested he move over to her team.” Jesse’s stage whisper carries over to where Genji lays.

“Does someone have a little crush? Think with your upper head, McCree. We have more use for Shimada’s skills than the bluecoats do,” Reyes dismisses him, sounding unconcerned. Genji doesn’t regret stabbing him. The man has gotten more and more callous lately. Asshole.

_ “Fuck _ you, boss,” Jesse growls. Genji is almost touched by his concern. Mostly he just feels empty and numb. Jiǔ’s hand in his hair is the only thing that feels real.

“Whoa, don’t you move on quick. Get your stuff ready. I’ll call Ziegler about the ninja.”

“Naw, don’t. I’ll do it. Mean ol’… Hey Ange. Yeah. A little banged up, yeah. Genji. We’re about two hours out. He’s, uh. In a bit of a state, so… yep. Thank you, that’d be swell. See ya.”

“Did you know,” Jiǔ suddenly speaks up, quiet. “That the airspeed velocity of an unladen swallow is about eleven meters per second.”

Despite himself, Genji laughs. If it’s more of a sob than anything, Jiǔ is kind enough not to comment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Tumblr post](https://chronicallyhaughty.tumblr.com/post/190839424539/) | [Pillowfort post](https://www.pillowfort.social/posts/1099474)

**Author's Note:**

> [Writing Tumblr](http://chronicallyhaughty.tumblr.com/) | [Main Tumblr](http://nattvingen.tumblr.com/) | [Pillowfort](https://www.pillowfort.social/Feloss)


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